


Come Undone

by DrowningFelix



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Multi, Please don't judge me, all of these tags and even the summary might change, i'm winging this really hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-10 17:56:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11131893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningFelix/pseuds/DrowningFelix
Summary: "Sometimes, in the hazy golden twilight realm that lies between the waking world and dreams, A voice speaks to Harry."The piece of Tom Riddle inside Harry becomes something very different from the rest of himself.





	Come Undone

**Author's Note:**

> ok, posting this to see what people think. this might die, and this might become something more. Pray for me, yeah?

_"Mine, immaculate dream made breath and skin_  
_I've been waiting for you"  
-Come Undone, Duran Duran_

Sometimes, in the hazy golden twilight realm that lies between the waking world and dreams, A voice speaks to Harry. He heard it when he was younger; Sometimes it comforted him as he was about to drift off. Sometimes it whispered gentle words of parting as he swam to the metaphorical surface of his mind, rising for the day. It faded as he grew older, or perhaps he lost the ability to remember it. 

When he was young, it was such a big part of his life, that friend he had in that other world. After he began Hogwarts, though, he had more friends, and his day to day life was so much more than it had been. 

He would forget it after waking, and the face he had once thought attached to this voice (or rather, the other way around he supposed, the voice attached to the face), seemed to disappear from his mind altogether. It became a sort of fuzzy thing, a memory he thought was a dream, something he'd invented to cope.  
Holding the diary of Tom Riddle in his hands, he had started to remember the voice. The feel of the leather in his hands reminded him so much of the feeling that had engulfed him when the apparition appeared to him. 

The memory of the boy tucked between the pages had reminded him strongly of someone he once knew, long ago, in a faraway place. Perhaps that is why, besides the simple naivety that comes with being young, he trusted Tom's words without question. 

It didn't stop him, however, from driving the basilisk's fangs, torn from his own bleeding arm, deep into the diary. The ink, dark and thick (could it have been blood? No, it had stained his fingertips, dripped from the hem of his robes, black like grease, black like _evil and malice_ ), had spilled from the yellowed pages and onto the stone floor of the chamber. He had watched as the boy faded into nothing, Voldemort once again vanquished by his hand. 

He felt something wash over him, and he paused for a minute, watching as Fawkes saved his life. Something had seeped into him, and he wondered if he just felt the effects of the venom taking hold, but the feeling didn't go away when Fawkes' tears closed the wounds.

As he handed the diary back to Lucius (Why hadn't he stopped him when he saw the man tuck it into poor Ginny's cauldron?), he felt like he was giving up something more than just the remnants of his enemy. He experienced a moment of regret, but it was gone before he could have time to be confused by the feeling. 

**Summer of 1995, Number 12 Grimmauld Place:**

Harry stared down at the locket in his hands, having watched everyone try- and fail- to pry it open. He tried as well, not getting anywhere. The feel of it in his hand brought on a hazy sense of Déjà vu, washing over his skin like the waves of the ocean. He could almost taste the salty brine of the wind, feel the waves tossing and turning, the deep blue tugging him down, down...

"Harry?" It was Hermione's voice that brought him out of his vision, if he could have called it that. He blinked at her, eyes unseeing for a few moments before it- whatever "it" was- passed. "Sorry, was thinking about how it might open. Probably cursed, though, shouldn't risk it." He tossed it into the trash heap, forgetting about it in the next moment.  
But that night, he dreamed of a cave, and of thousands of souls locked away beneath the surface of dark water. One in particular grabbed at him, hauling itself out of the black depths, and the wretched form of the corpse looked hauntingly like someone he'd seen once in passing, but he couldn't place the face. He woke covered in a layer of cold sweat, and as the scene faded he could only be thankful that his dreams hadn't been filled with the light leaving Cedric's eyes once again. 

**June 18th, 1996, Ministry of Magic**

Harry screamed, struggling against Remus's arms. He clawed and kicked, but the man held tight. Tears streamed down his face, and he felt a wetness on his back as well. He knew Remus was crying, but if he could just _get to Sirius dear lord let me get to him, there's still time_ , his tears would be for nothing. He knew if he just pulled a little harder, he could still grab Sirius and pull him from the veil, he must be just on the other side, waiting for him. Remus lowered him onto the floor in the middle of the battle, holding him, shushing him. Harry shook with the force of his sobs, collapsing into Remus. But the fight was not over, and he pushed away from the man and chased down the cackling woman who danced just out of his reach.

"I killed Sirius Black!" Her screeches echoed through the halls, bouncing off of the marble. 

" _Crucio!_ " The spell did little more than a stinging hex, knocking her to her feet. He paused, surprised that the spell had even come from his lips. But a little voice whispered to him, pushed him.

 _ **"Go on, Harry, you know the spell..."**_ But then he felt something warm caress him from the inside, and he paused, wand lowering. He heard it then, soft, and it brought back many old memories he'd forgotten. 

_**"Don't listen to him, Harry. He's twisting you. Do it if you wish, but don't let him make you."**_

But by the time he took in what was being said, Voldemort was there, and so was Dumbledore, and it was easy to forget the calm voice that had pulled him back from the toxicity that was Voldemort's link into his mind. He could feel the thick feeling, covering him like the ink from the diary pages, disgusting and poisonous like venom, dripping from the edges of his mind. As he slept that night, though, the inky black was replaced with a hazy gold and a twilit scene, where a dark-haired boy once again fought off the nightmares and the stress of the waking world. 

**Mid-July, 1996, The Burrow, Outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole**

Harry woke in the middle of the night, feeling like something had rushed into him, through him. It reminded him much of when Voldemort's soul had rushed at him in his first year, after he had- rather violently- separated it from the body of Professor Quirrel. He sucked in a breath, trying to get his bearings. He had just been brought to the Burrow to stay for the duration of the summer, so it was strange to not see the walls of the Dursley's house around him. It was comforting, of course, but still disorienting. 

He climbed to his feet, shuffling out of Ron's orange-splattered room and out onto the landing, making his way to the bathroom. He flicked on the light and stared at himself in the mirror for a good long moment. He pushed a hand through his raven-black hair, always a mess, and sighed. 

It'd been hard, lately, but he thanked the heavens that he at least got sleep. Something was keeping him calm throughout the night, which was wonderful, since he couldn't yet cast silencing charms outside of Hogwarts, and he had no intention of letting the entire house know just how violent he could get in the midst of a nightmare. He had already received the wrath of Vernon when too many nights had left him screaming, the ghost of a cruciatus curse rippling over his flesh, Names of those long lost dying on his tongue.  
It was like forces within him were trying to make his burdens easier on him, lighter to bear, and he thanked whatever deity held the strings connected to his fate. He also cursed them, because why him? 

After the prophecy, when he had heard that Neville could have been chosen instead, he had a small bought of depression where he fought with himself daily. He had bounced between _"Why couldn't it have been him?"_ And hating himself for that very thought, thinking himself selfish and disgusting. He couldn't wish his life on anyone, he wouldn't wish it. But he also didn't want it, didn't want the fame, the looks, the knowledge that everyone close to him had a big target painted on them. He gripped the edge of the sink, closing his eyes for a bit before snapping them back open and turning on the tap, splashing his face with cold water. 

He eventually made his way back into bed, falling into a deep sleep filled with dreams of golden summer evenings and a boy who calmed him to the bone, who kept him away from the swirling depths of the sea of nightmares.

**Author's Note:**

> if you see any mistakes, please comment!! i glanced over it like 50 times but lord knows i miss things, and spellcheck only helps if you don't accidentally spell something else that is a word...  
> Tell me what you think, please!


End file.
